


On the Back Burner

by RachelCAstrid



Series: Writer!Kate [3]
Category: Castle
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Bathing/Washing, Characters Writing Fanfic, Episode Related, F/M, Female Friendship, Finger Sucking, French Kissing, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Love Triangles, Massage, Missing Scene, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Power Play, Reading, Season/Series 02, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Songwriting, Sparring, Spooning, Theory Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelCAstrid/pseuds/RachelCAstrid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how close she and Castle leaned in toward one another - as they theorized and plotted, argued and flirted - they seldom touched. They were so very good at not-touching. And Beckett was at wit's end...</p><p>Part of my Writer!Kate series. Likely stands alone but better when read after "This Nikki Heat Thing" and/or "Packing Heat." Precedes "Californication."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spar

**Author's Note:**

> ODW (Obligatory Demming Warning): Upon reading this, you may like and/or dislike Tom Demming even more than you do now. In any case, I hope you come out of this with renewed appreciation for the last few eps of Season 2 and Kate's future with Castle. I am in total support of Caskett, I assure you. I just love how their story unfolds, including most of the rough bits. And I think Demming as a character has more potential that we didn't get to see.

No matter how close she and Castle leaned in toward one another—as they theorized and plotted, argued and flirted—they seldom touched. They were so very good at not-touching.

And Beckett was at wit's end.

Remembering how to touch herself had helped her to reconnect with her senses and expend some of her pent up frustrations, but it had done nothing to satisfy her growing need for interpersonal contact. If anything, it merely made the void that much more noticeable, inescapable.

Sometimes people just need to be touched, damn it.

It had been long enough ago since Will Sorenson or anyone else had tangled limbs with her that sparring with Robbery Detective Tom Demming, even while considering him to be a suspect, had felt better than sex. Endorphins flooded her body. His weight felt tantalizing over her, beneath her, propelling and repelling her. They were two potent, sexually-charged bodies bouncing off one another in a haze of suspicion and sweat.

They had a rhythm, but there were also plenty of ways that they caught one another by surprise. They shared a lot of common ground, in their work and their drive and their combative instincts. Yet he didn't feel like an inscrutable extension of her—she liked that. It was one of the things she'd liked about the grunge band guitarist, the med student, and the French guy in her more distant past.

And she liked how quickly Demming figured out that she liked to be in the driver's seat—how occasionally he fought her for it yet made it a fair fight.

More exciting than Will, she decided, silently berating herself for comparing the men. But she couldn't help it. The Robbery Detective was every bit as strong and handsome as the Federal Agent, but he did something new to her insides.

Castle had been partially right when he'd said that Sorenson was a male Beckett; what he didn't peg was how much Will out-Becketted her in bed.

Will took charge in their relationship as much as he did on their taskforce. Held her jaw just so whenever they kissed, pinning her right where he wanted her before sucking on her lip and penetrating her mouth. So still and sturdy; words she never thought she'd associate with kisses. And maybe she'd needed that once. He'd dragged her out of her torrid emotional journey and given her a solid foundation.

But Kate was a force of nature. She needed to quake. Their first time together, she'd managed to sink onto him and ride him right off the Richter scale—until he seized her hips and flipped them, leaning his muscular weight into her. She was wound too tight to object at the time, but if she'd known his authority was to be the rule rather than the exception, she might have been feistier.

Too often she yielded to him. Until Will Sorenson, Kate Beckett didn't even know she knew how to yield.

Whenever he made love to her—not "whenever they made love," because no matter how enthusiastically she participated, he claimed the lead—he seemed to feel obligated to bear the brunt of the work.

He liked her best face-down on the bed, clinging to the sheets as he towered behind her, her moans muffled in the fabric. It was the most passive and voiceless she had ever been in the bedroom, and there was something appealing in that novelty, that surrender. It wouldn't have worked if she hadn't trusted Will, cared about him.

But she wished she could see him, his eyes, his face; longed for that connection. The best she could do was to turn her head to the side and catch his movements in her peripheral vision. Even when he was there with her, even when he was inside her, somehow Will was always a little too far away.

They had a different M.O. on the nights that he'd hit a wall in a case: he would work the enigma out on her flushed skin, pushing her back against the wall and lifting her up like a lithe doll. Maybe he meant well by her—maybe he meant to make her feel weightless, soaring; but usually she just felt small and portable. If she had even one foot grounded, he'd grab her legs and wrap her around his torso, ramming into her at his own pace.

And that worked for her.

Except when it didn't.

When he said he was leaving for Boston, she finally realized how many ways he had her up against the wall; how many ways he intended to carry her however and wherever he pleased, and she didn't want it anymore. Not like that.

But Tom? Tom took pleasure in wrestling her for dominance when they sparred, and she could only imagine that sex with him would be just as invigorating.

Of course, despite his animalistic ferocity on the mat, he was quite the gentleman in pursuing her—thoughtful and tentative. The way he was so obviously interested in her and yet determined to treat her well and take the time to woo her first gave her all the flutters of excitement of a burgeoning relationship. Her strongest relationships had unfolded gradually, and even though her own impatience ate away at her, the anticipation that this might become something both meaningful and, ahem, invigorating was enough to chew on for a while.

But while Thoughtful, Tentative Tom was taking his sweet time getting to know her, gauging her comfort level and pace and interests like a barometer, Kate was still not being touched—except when they sparred.

Naturally, Kate found herself composing sex scenes for Nikki Heat that were essentially steamy sparring sessions.

Steamy sparring sex that didn't happen with Rook.

It was a strange feeling—writing Nikki with another man.

Like cheating.

No, not like cheating, because even though she'd finally come to terms with her sexual attraction to Castle and the fact that there was a little more of them in Nikki and Rook than she might have once believed, it wasn't like there was anything going on between them in reality.

Nikki could screw whoever she damn well pleased, and Kate would not feel guilty about it.

Kate made him tall and muscular, courteous and considerate, everything that she saw in Tom Demming.

And Nikki fell hard.

Kate did, too.

He brought her coffee. He went with her to pick up suspects and witnesses. He joined her for interrogations. He teased her. He brought her Chinese food and dined with her right there in the precinct. He made excuses just to come around and see her.

He was like no one she knew.


	2. Swallow

Castle didn't put up a fight.

He had sparred a little with Will Sorenson, trying to trump him in their investigation, taunting the feeb that he may have hooked Beckett but he'd never reeled her in.

But Beckett wasn't a fish.

And after a year at her side, Castle could no longer talk about her as though she were one.

Tom Demming hadn't hooked her, either. He'd fallen for her, plain and simple, and it seemed mutual. No matter how much Castle hated the guy, no matter how much he resented that Demming was too often the reason that Kate Beckett smiled these days, he couldn't forget the look of relief and anticipation on Demming's face when Castle assured him that he wasn't involved with Beckett.

"No flag on play," he'd told Demming, while trying to convince himself that this really was a game. He couldn't objectify Beckett anymore, but if he objectified the chase—made light of it—then maybe it would hurt just a little less to lose her.

He wasn't used to losing games he wanted to win or women he wanted to keep. Somehow he would have to get used to the reality of losing Beckett.

Unless, that is, her old friend Madison's instincts were to be trusted. The interrogation he'd plainly overheard from the observation room was not one that Castle would soon forget.

And by the same token, Kate would not forget the conversation that she shared over her dinner with Madison at the end of the case of the Q3 chef.

Madison's brow furrowed as Kate came in for a landing on her spirited monologue about Tom Demming. "But—you're still hot for Castle?" It was almost a statement, as though her voice inflected at the end out of some sort of courtesy to Kate, who nevertheless was in no hurry to respond.

As far as she remembered, she hadn't mentioned Castle since they sat down. Wasn't her friend listening to anything she'd just said?

Madison offered her sympathetic eyes. "Oh, Becks. Is it the med student and the French guy all over again? The dependable one with the stable future—the safe one—and the one you really loved but were afraid would leave the country?"

"I did _not_ love him," Kate argued, "and no one is leaving the country here."

"Minor details," Maddie insisted, waving them away with her hand. "The point is: you _really_ care about this robbery detective."

"No, he's the dependable one."

Madison looked very satisfied with herself for the full second that it took Kate to realize her blunder.

Once she did, she struggled to say anything coherent at all. "I mean—he's the one I, uh—"

"The one you like," Madison supplied, "because he got the Hung Medal or whatever it was. And he fed you Chinese food and pinned you to a mat like a sexy beast. I know. I get it. And Castle is just the safe option."

That was all too much to swallow; Kate had just taken a sip of water and almost did a spit-take. _"Safe?_ Are we talking about the same Richard Castle?"

Madison shrugged. "From the little I've heard about your cases, he sounds pretty dependable to me."

"He's—irrepressible."

"Last time," her friend said, thoughtfully, "you went with the safe choice. You didn't want to get too serious with the French guy if he was going to leave at the end of the year."

Kate nodded absentmindedly in her defensiveness. "And he _did."_

"And he did," Maddie echoed, "and then he wrote you letters until he probably realized you weren't going to write back. Meanwhile, your med student dropped out of school to drum for your ex's grunge band. People change, Becks." She paused pointedly. "Detective Beckett."

Kate pursed her lips and flared her eyelids, then looked down to busy herself with straightening the utensils on the table. "And sometimes they don't."

She thought about Cecily's dilemma between Wolf and David, the foster brothers as different as night and day who had both managed to capture her interest.

She thought about her conversation with Castle. _The heart wants what the heart wants._

"Listen," Maddie said, lowering her voice and leaning in. "I know Rick's reputation. I know what you're afraid of."

She gave Kate a moment to digest that much before continuing.

"And I know you said you two haven't started anything, so maybe it _isn't_ the French guy all over again. Or maybe this time you happen to know two men who are both dependable and exciting in different ways. Or maybe you won't want to be with either of them—fine." Madison smiled gently. "I just don't want to see you settle for another guy who turns out not to be what you're looking for."

Kate looked up in pensive gratitude. "I guess I still don't really know what I'm looking for."

She may not have known quite what she was looking for, but she had a pretty good idea of what she had found.

It damn well might have been his blue eyes that did her in.

The night after the dinner with Madison, Kate and Tom went out as planned for burgers and beer at Remy's, and the whole time that she was faced with those gorgeous blue eyes, all she could think was how could Tom Demming ever be a man that someone settled for?

Dinner went well, so well that there was no dessert.

So well that the fleeting touches of their hands and the occasional brush of knees were enough to make them hunger for more physical contact than would be considered decent at Remy's.

They stumbled through her front door in a tangled knot of intense, frenetic energy, intoxicated not with the alcohol but with the taste of their warring tongues. Together they unbuttoned each other's shirts until the articles hung loosely on them both.

"I'm sorry, Kate. I—"

"Don't be sorry."

"I didn't ask."

"Neither did I," she teased.

"OK," he agreed, kissing her again.

Without unlocking their lips, they pushed simultaneously at each other's sleeves, and only broke apart in quiet laughter when they realized how hopeless a maneuver this was. Instead, they held one another—faces close, ragged breaths mingling together—tracing the tailored lines of their shirts.

Then his expression requested her permission, and she gave it. He buried his head in her open blouse, licking and nipping the outline of her bra and the gently protruding peaks.

He came up for air for a moment and caught her eye again, divesting her of the blouse before stroking his thumbs against her. "Didn't figure you for a hot pink girl," he said, eyes flashing briefly to her bra.

Her neon ice skates came to mind, but neon ice skates meant Will, and she was with Tom now. So aloud she said, "Sometimes I am."

Another look, another question, another permissive smile in reply; he unhooked the bright lingerie and eased it off of her. "Wanted to show me a different side of yourself tonight, huh?"

"Actually, I didn't expect. . . ." She trailed off when she saw a question rise in his face, and she clarified: "It's a pleasant surprise."

He paused, considering her for a moment. "We _can_ take this slow, you know. I like you, Kate. I really like you."

"Good, because I like you, too," she said, running her hands over his well-defined torso and kissing him. He made her feel brave and young and alive, like her 18-year-old self. "You know what else I like? Making out on a first date."

"You're not counting Chinese food at the Twelfth?" He leaned his forehead against hers and brushed his knuckles across her smooth breasts.

"Mm. Second date, then." Words were becoming increasingly difficult to roll off her tongue.

He certainly wasn't helping. He rolled both of her nipples between his fingers in synchronization. "How 'bout the interrogations?"

"Those weren't dates."

"They might have been." He lowered his head to replace one hand with his mouth, catching the erect peak between his lips, and she arched her back, leaning into him.

_"Tom."_

He murmured into her flesh: "You're right, you're right."

"No, I mean—oh. Tom," she gasped, scraping his scalp.

"Hmm." He paused without rising, taking a moment to swallow and catch his breath. "If this is how you react to _this,_ I can't wait to see you when I—" He let the sentence hang in the lust-laden air while he returned his attention to her bare skin.

"Don't stop," she breathed shakily, suddenly aware that by now she could probably climax before he moved to any other part of her anatomy. She _really_ hadn't expected this to happen tonight.

At this point, he could touch whatever the hell he wanted. The man was perfection; his hands and tongue were warm and rough and strong and _perfect._

Then he fingered her necklace, tracing the chain that held her mother's ring. "What's this?"

 _It's nothing,_ she wanted to say, but couldn't. _It's something. It's everything._

"It's a long story," she said finally, the words more mangled in her throat than she'd expected.

 _Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop. . . ._ It echoed in her mind. She didn't know if she meant the plea for him or for herself. _Don't stop there, Kate. Tell him the rest. Tom, don't stop. Don't let me stop you._

It was too late. She swallowed hard, and he knew something had broken her equilibrium in a way that touching and tasting her could not restore.

Still, he tried again to kiss her, not quite able to leave her alone with her mysterious wound. But she knew, too, that she didn't have it in her right now to tell him the long story; knew that, in the span of a single touch and two innocent words, her heart had sunken too far into herself to feel light very soon.

This time her gentle smile gave Tom her permission to go.

And he didn't put up much of a fight.


	3. Straddle

She didn't know it, but that was the moment that she chose Castle—the first of a series of moments.

She didn't intend to string Tom Demming along. Despite their awkward non-conversation, she honestly thought that they still had something; that they could still be something.

But in the moment that Kate consciously bore the weight of her mother's murder alone, she took their budding relationship into her own hands. There was nothing Tom could do on his own power; nothing more he could say or be that would allow their partnership to blossom fully.

Although Kate was in a much more stable place now than she once was, something made her guard the sanctity of her loss from him.

Maybe if he didn't know, she could feel 18 just a while longer. It wouldn't bring her mother back, or avenge her death, or quench Kate's thirst for the truth, but maybe she could live some part of her life as though that devastating nineteenth year had never passed.

Her mother's death had changed her too profoundly to go unexplained, and it was no great secret to those who knew her. And she'd told the story before—told Castle when she'd known him about as long as she knew Tom now.

But the story seemed longer, heavier since then. A year ago she could explain the ring on her chain with the account of a single night. When she looked back now, the timeline continued on with new answers and still new questions. She saw Dick Coonan's blood on her hands. She saw Castle, so irrevocably entwined in this mess of hers, no matter how much she'd wanted him to be content just to hear the story she'd told him and not to press the matter further.

Somehow he had pressed his way in, and by the time he arrived at the precinct with every kind of food she might want as a parting apology, she knew that she couldn't let him go.

True, being with Tom made her feel young and alive, but Castle had that effect on her in his own way, and she admitted as much. Having the writer around made life at the Twelfth—and sometimes beyond it, like that night they ate at Remy's or the time she'd had to stay at his loft—"a little more fun."

And yet Castle knew the 30-year-old Beckett, complete with baggage. He knew more and more of her each day; some things seemingly by osmosis, some by earnest curiosity. She had come to trust Castle with the sacred, even if she didn't trust him with the intimate.

The truth was that she was still the motherless 30-year-old Beckett with Tom. By holding back, she simply offered a different side of herself to him: traces of the intimate without the sacred.

But she trusted Tom to be loyal, and if there was one thing that Kate wanted, it was not to be heartbroken. Soon enough, she would share the kind of intimacy she wanted; she would not let her wound stand in her way.

After that night, the night that she could not tell the story, she stopped wearing the ring as a pendant over her heart.

It was a new badge of courage for Kate—her bare skin. She still felt raw inside, but she sensed change in the air.

It had been a long time since she'd had curly hair, but a new style was one more way for her to embrace the turn her life seemed to be taking; a new relationship, a new Kate Beckett.

And Castle took notice.

He didn't mention the curls—managed to restrain himself from tugging them if just for fear of losing a hand—but he noticed them.

He wondered whether Demming had said something to make Beckett want to change for him. He wondered whether Beckett had made the change herself to signify a new development in her personal life. Then again, he reminded himself, Beckett tried on a new hairstyle all the time. It could be nothing.

 _It could be boredom,_ he thought smugly.

Then Beckett requested Schlemming to assist in the Wilder robbery-homicide case.

Once Castle and Beckett were finally alone with the team's murder board, Castle tried valiantly to persuade her that the stolen books—and Demming's expertise, by proxy—were an insignificant aspect of the case.

Beckett may have been judicious about it, but Castle couldn't help but feel that she had a vested interest in hanging onto the robbery component. "I think we should pursue both lines of investigation," she said. It was, after all, too early to tell which one would pan out.

That's when he let it slip, muttering under his breath: "He's _your_ boyfriend."

His pulse raced both with the fear of her confirmation and the familiar rhythm of their banter as Beckett threw back an indignant, "Excuse me?" and told him it was none of his business.

Really, it _was_ his business to learn her life—to adapt it for Nikki Heat—but his curiosity, particularly now, was not of a professional nature.

His competitive edge was coming back.

He tried to outdo Demming at every turn, offering Beckett legitimate theories like tokens of affection and thriving on the moments that she affirmed his leads, but the day's final defeat came when they decided to pack it in and Demming pointedly asked Beckett if she was ready to go.

"I thought we were knocking it off for the night," said Castle, calling them out on it, though part of him—the part that felt like a punched gut—wished he hadn't.

Beckett turned a certain shade of uncomfortable as she explained that they were just sharing a cab and bid Castle a good night.

As it happened, she wished he hadn't said it, either; wished he hadn't forced her hand.

After Castle's frustrating tryst with Ellie Monroe, complete with his chipper _I-just-got-laid_ voice, followed all too closely by his night on the town with Madison, Kate was more than happy to have a person of interest in her life whose mug-shot wasn't taped to her murder board.

But the more official things got with Tom, the more difficult it was to look Castle in the eyes, as though he was still there for her story and she could no longer tell it to him. His comment meant she'd had to tell him more than she had intended.

Of course, "sharing a cab" was about as ambiguous as "hooking up," so when Tom suggested earlier that they share a cab tonight, she didn't know what to expect any better than Castle did.

Not that she was still thinking about Castle while she sat there in the backseat of the taxi with her boyfriend—He was her boyfriend, right? That's what Castle had called him—stroking lazy circles on her inner thigh in radiating warmth.

When they pulled up to her place, Tom insisted on getting out and opening the car door for her, and she indulged his chivalry. They stood between the frame of the cab and the open door, sharing a slow and languid kiss. "Good night," he said finally.

"See you tomorrow," said Kate, knowing that it was Castle's line and wondering fleetingly where he was, what he was doing.

"Tomorrow," Tom echoed, momentarily lost in her eyes. Was it just him, or had an especially beautiful look come over her just then? "Right. Tomorrow."

They leaned in again, and it became increasingly clear that neither was quite ready to part for the night.

She ended the kiss and bit her own lower lip in thought. "You want to come up?"

"If you'll have me." He smiled and pulled out his wallet to pay for their trip; Kate was a quick-draw and beat him to it. He wondered if she had some kind of a chivalry quota, but he was soon distracted by more pressing thoughts. He followed her inside to the apartment, trailing behind her with a gentle hand at her back.

He was so dutifully considerate that she finally mounted him right there on her sofa, her knees straddling his hips as she clung to his lapels and ground into his lap. She un-tucked his shirt and made fast work of the buttons and his tie.

Sensitive to the way that the night had ended between them last time, he asked with his eyes for permission to kiss her, to fondle her, to leave dark love-bites where only she would see them. He pulled her black turtleneck up just enough to peek at her lingerie before looking into her eyes again.

"Black today," he reported, blindly fingering her lace and finally removing her top.

"Disappointed?"

"What do you think?" he teased.

She kissed him and felt his response beneath her, and with a knowing smile, she rocked back just enough to slide her hands between them—unbuckle his belt, unbutton his pants, unzip his fly. She did it all in record time, and she was just about to touch him when Tom rose to his feet, cradling her ass and leaving her little choice but to wrap her legs around his waist.

But with Tom, this didn't make her feel small and portable; she felt all the more ready to exercise her power.

Together they shoved his pants down, and as he stepped out of them, she took the opportunity to topple both of them back down on the sofa, straddling him again.

He glanced at their location and then to her. "You don't want to move this to the bedroom?"

What she didn't tell him was that, with occasional exception, bedrooms were for lovers; sofas were for guests. Even though the very thought of him excited her, they had never made love, and she wasn't convinced yet that he had bypassed the "guest" stage.

Besides, ever since her old apartment had blown up and she'd moved into this temporary sublet, Kate was protective of her space.

Instead she simply told him, "I think the sofa will do just fine."

"Oh?"

She smiled mischievously, letting her fingers trail down, down, down. She reached into his boxers and freed his length, stroking and twisting and watching his face contort with lust and pleasure.

He reached for her, managed to unclasp her black bra and force the straps off her shoulders, but it caught briefly on her arms, and they both made a frustrated sound at the constriction that almost kept her from her task. The fabric finally released her, and he tossed it aside, but the look in her eyes told him that she would be in charge now.

Then she shimmied down his body, knelt between his legs, and swallowed him whole.

That night, he took another cab the rest of the way home, and Kate fell asleep beneath the soft glow of her bedside lamp, her notebook drifting off her lap and her pen held loosely in her hand.

In the morning, she sported her hair in soft curls again, and with her black blazer she wore a hot pink blouse just for Tom.


	4. Steal

She'd thought of Tom when she slipped into the pink blouse, but she spent the evening with Nikki.

The complexities of the Wilder case exhausted her; from dealing with Natasha Piper's arrogant apathy first thing in the morning to dividing her time and energy between parallel investigations, only to discover that both Demming and Castle's leads were dead-ends. Neither suspect fit the timeline, so now she was back at square one.

She'd essentially tolerated the competitiveness when it looked like one of their theories might pan out, but by the time they were battling openly at the table, she was over it—each of them hell-bent on being _right._

Didn't anyone want the truth anymore? Was Kate the only one who cared about getting to the truth? When did this all become just a pissing contest, and when the hell did she make them think that was OK?

She surprised everyone by leaving the precinct alone.

On her way home, she picked up Chinese food (not from Hung's) and treated herself to a quiet evening of solace—the best kind, with wine and a novel and a long soak.

Nikki had taught her that; Castle had taught her that.

"So, what would Nikki Heat do after a bad day?" she'd asked the writer, months ago.

He'd smiled pensively. "She'd go home, pour a stiff drink, run a hot bath, read a good book. . . ."

"Too bad I don't have a good book to read," she'd teased, knowing full well even then that once he finally gave it to her, _Heat Wave_ would keep her occupied.

The sublet's bathroom was much smaller than the one in her old apartment, and Kate almost laughed at how her endeavor must have looked. Her legs were too long for the confines of this tub, forcing her either to bend them and extend her feet to the wall, or fold her knees into hilltop islands in her bathwater. Instead of a plethora of pillar candles scattered around the entire room, she had only a few tiny votives on the minimal counter and the closed toilet lid.

But no one could see her here in the privacy of her own space, and the rest of her body from the chest down was pleasantly submerged in warmth. Contentedly, she reached for her glass of red wine and her good book, the perfect company for a simple evening.

She had fallen asleep on her writing last night, and she decided now that it had been too long since she'd taken words _in_ rather than pouring them out. It had been a while since she had done any reading; heard someone else's voice in her head for a change.

She opened her copy of _Heat Wave,_ starting at the beginning. She didn't need to make it to Chapter Ten to realize that she had missed Rook on Nikki's behalf.

Eventually Kate closed the book, needing to rest her eyes, and placed it gently on the flat surface of the side of the tub. Her empty wine glass had long since found its way to the floor; there was no space for even a temporary bath-side table in this room, and two votives had already claimed the toilet lid nearby.

Feeling relaxed, she eased her head back to rest against the wall and closed her eyes.

As she lay there, awake but mellowed with wine and words, it occurred to her that she had all but stolen Castle's world—manipulated his characters to suit her purposes. Suddenly the premise of Nikki's sparring lover seemed a little flat.

She slid herself down deep into the water, and in her mind she heard Castle's perpetual question: "What would make a better story?"

She didn't know the answer, but the question sent a charge of energy through her veins. She had never thought of her writing as a craft; never thought about serving the story instead of just herself.

It excited her enough that she reached up to pull herself out of the water, accidentally catching _Heat Wave_ and plunging it into her bath. With a yelp, she peeled it off of her belly and held it above her, letting some of the water stream off of the book before she leapt out of the tub.

Certainly she could get another copy—though she'd never admit to Castle that his book had reached its demise by drowning beside her bathing body—but she hoped that she could salvage this copy, the one that he gave her. Even waterlogged, it was worth more to her than a crisp one fresh off a store book rack.

In her urgency, it didn't even register that she was still naked and wet until she was carefully separating the pages beside a fan and trying to determine which direction the binding should face to incur the least damage.

She never got around to writing because she spent the rest of her night rescuing Nikki Heat.

The next day, they caught a break in the Wilder case that sent Castle and Beckett into their old collaborative theory-building ways—with the one minor difference that, this time, Demming looked on, unable to get a word in edgewise.

Kate didn't notice that she fed her hypotheses to Castle like dropping peeled grapes into his waiting mouth. She barely took her eyes off of him, as though just watching him swallow her words was as satisfying as eating a meal herself.

Thoroughly caught up in the moment, she never even imagined that she had Theory Sex with Castle right in front of Tom.

She also had no idea that Tom's congratulatory kiss for closing this case once and for all wasn't as clandestine as she believed; she'd thought they had stolen a private moment for themselves in a quiet area of the precinct.

Private moments in semi-public spaces were addictive.

They also had a way of leading to private moments in private spaces—especially when Kate put her foot down and insisted on relocating.

One night, this sequence of events led them from the gym to Tom's place.

"You really shouldn't kiss me while we're sparring," Kate said as they slipped off their shoes at the door.

"Because it's a PDA?" He came up behind her and removed the lightweight jacket she wore, hanging it up in the front closet with his own. They were surprisingly civilized despite the war their pheromones were waging.

"Because it's bad form," she teased. "Besides, if you're already on top of me like that, I can't promise that I'll have the same self-control next time."

"You liked that, huh?" Tom's eyes sparkled. "Making out in the gym, or me being on top?"

Without warning, Kate swept him to the floor. She dropped down, bearing her weight on him, and whispered seductively in his ear: "You glad you have carpeting?"

He grunted presumably in the affirmative, forcing her head down to his in a fierce kiss before using the length of his body to roll her beneath him. Securing her with both of his knees around her thigh, he held her other leg bent up against her chest, reached back to her elevated foot, and pulled off her sock.

As he moved, she wrapped this leg around him. Kate propelled him to the side, twisting herself free and standing in triumph. She stepped away just enough to catch her breath before he could retaliate.

She underestimated his reach, however, and Tom pulled her closer by the hips. He used her grounded strength as leverage to stand, simultaneously tearing her shirt off over her head. He drew her against him, deftly lifting her leg around his waist and reaching back to remove the second sock.

Still a bit breathless, Kate murmured into him, "You know what I wonder?"

"What?" He let her foot slide down his calf but pressed himself more firmly against her, pushing his thigh between both of hers and kissing her shoulder.

"Was Wilder dead by the time Blake hit him?"

Tom hummed into her neck.

"I mean, Lanie said the shot didn't kill him instantly, but did Lisa only incapacitate him until Blake came along, or did she actually kill him?"

He smiled, running his finger over her lips and sliding it into her mouth. "Let's let the lawyers worry about that now."

She sucked on the digit and then released it to speak. "I'm not worrying. I just—want to know." She slid down his leg until she knelt before him, pulling his pants off along the way. He stepped out of them, and as he lifted each foot, she stole his socks and tossed them aside. He caught her wrists and held them above her head, and she exhaled warmth over the bulge in his boxers: "I wonder . . ."

"The case is done, Kate. Our work is done." He circled behind her and nudged her raised arms and upper body forward until she supported herself on her hands and knees.

He leaned down and grasped her legs, lifting her up like a wheelbarrow to peel off her yoga pants. As they reached her ankles, Kate twisted her body to face up, kicked off the pants and took Tom's hand, beckoning him to join her on the floor. "But don't you ever wonder . . . ?"

"Isn't it enough to deal with it 'til the case is closed? Why would you want to know more now?" He pulled his sleeveless shirt off over his head, still wanting this unusual conversation to be headed in a definite direction.

She smiled weakly. "I just—wonder. That's all."

He was about to lean her back and lay above her, but she intercepted him, not only claiming the top but rising to straddle his naked chest, facing away from him.

She leaned forward, cupped him through his boxers, and released his hardness to the warm air. She had to reposition her knees to align herself to take him in her mouth, and Tom couldn't resist the view of wet, royal blue hovering above his face.

He tilted his head and licked her through her panties, startling her.

It occurred to him that perhaps she hadn't assumed this position on purpose, and as though to verify the theory, she planted her wet crotch on his chest, out of reach of his tongue, and curved her back in order to keep his shaft in her mouth.

"Jeez, Kate," he gasped, lowering his head in defeat and running his hands along her smooth back and the hems of her sports bra and panties. "You're kind of stealing my thunder here. Not that I mind the attention, but when are you going to let me return the favor?"

He was onto something, Kate knew.

This was about as far as she had let them get two nights ago. After she'd satisfied him, she'd subtly hinted to him that it was late and they both needed to get to sleep—separately.

She really did want so badly to be touched again, and it wasn't like her to give without taking when it came to sex, even despite her passivity with Will. She was far from frigid; she knew what she liked, and she still wanted it. She thought she wanted it with Tom.

Why was it suddenly so much easier to give pleasure than to accept it? Did she need to convince herself that she really cared for Tom, and not that she was just so desperate to be touched?

Was she subconsciously holding out for little Castle babies—now that Maddie had put the idea out into the ethos, and Kate hadn't done her part to deny it—even though lately she spent her nights undressing Tom Demming?

"You'll have your turn," she deflected, massaging him and taking the moment to relax her jaw. "But first, I have something I'd like to finish."

Meanwhile, alone in his office across town, Richard Castle eyed the blank computer screen, watching the cursor blink helplessly at him.

He'd taken Alexis' advice and ditched Detective Schlemming (she was right—he really was coming off like a doofus), but eliminating him eventually meant eliminating an entire chapter in the story, at least until he could rewrite it the way that he wanted.

But so far, staring into the pixel abyss, he couldn't even seem to figure out where Rook was supposed to be at this point. And only one thing paralyzed him more than that: he was having trouble remembering what Nikki's voice was like before Schlemming came.

Sometimes he almost couldn't hear her at all.


	5. Sing

He caught a glimpse of her in the morning light. Castle's stomach flipped with hope and something else; something like the joy of receiving a letter from a distant friend or hearing a favorite song. And he knew all the words.

It was the silhouette of Nikki Heat, straight hair and curved body—just the way he remembered her, walking away down the alley after that very first case; only this time, Kate Beckett was walking toward him, meeting him at the entrance of the park with the glow of sunlight at her back.

Her hair wasn't all that had changed since he'd last seen her. Something was different in her eyes—like she was especially glad to see him today. Or was he jumping to dangerous conclusions again?

He also recognized her outfit as one she'd worn recently, but not _too_ recently. He didn't remember when exactly, but he knew it was before Demming showed up. Just like her hair. Kate Beckett. Hot damn.

Like so many times before, she asked after Alexis—his very life, his heart—and he recounted to her his daughter's latest enterprise and how it would whisk her away from their Memorial Day tradition. After Beckett sympathized with his separation anxiety, Castle further described the world of bonfires and ghost stories and sleeping late.

"Sounds nice," she said appreciatively. "Kind of magical, actually."

Oh, hell. Her straight hair made him brave, and he went for it. "Yeah, you know what? You should come."

And the pitch.

"It's right on the ocean. There's a secluded pool. You could lay out; work on your tan."

"Wow, Castle," she teased, "you're working really hard to see me in a swimsuit."

He made his playful response sound obvious and nonchalant: "If you're not comfortable in a swimsuit, you can just skinny-dip."

God, the repartee was delicious. He missed that.

Beckett did, too. As they walked, she looked forward and hid a smile that he could sense.

The second time he asked her, he didn't exactly ask. Mostly, he tried to entice her with a view from his patio—a photo on his phone, personally delivered to her desk with her cup of coffee. Beckett was too confounded by their victim's mysterious identity to talk about beaches. But the mystery roused him, too, and he puzzled it out with her.

Of course, it couldn't hurt to extend a third invitation. Their rhythm was back, and her hair was straight, and, even during a case with self-destructive secret-message pens and the hallmarks of a professional hit, it seemed that all he could think about was taking Beckett off the grid and keeping her for himself for as long as she would let him.

Maybe it was his persistence, or maybe it was the look on his face, but this time the invitation sank in. Beckett met his eye. "You're _seriously_ asking me to your place in the Hamptons."

"I promise; no funny stuff. Just a friendly getaway," he assured her. "It'll be fun."

The response came all too freely with a nod: "Yeah. . . ." But she caught herself, her expression of possibility and latent desire becoming one of defiant reality as she fell back on her default excuse. _"No._ You know, some of us have to work for a living." She told him that she'd already spent all of her vacation time apartment-hunting.

Work—yes, that was it. There was a lot that Beckett needed to work at, and if he went away just for the weekend, maybe she'd make a bit of progress.

This relationship thing was still fragile and new, and she couldn't work at it with Castle breathing down her neck.

She felt her face flush lightly just as their mystery contact arrived. It wasn't just the thought of Castle being on top of her—figuratively speaking, of course. It was the fact that Detective Kate Beckett, who cared so deeply for the truth, had just lied outright to her friend.

On principle, the only reason that Beckett lied while on duty—like while interrogating a suspect—was in order to draw out a greater truth.

If this lie revealed anything to her, it was that lying to Castle was almost as painful as the idea of exposing her heart to him.

Meanwhile, Tom Demming thought hard about how to help Kate open up to _him._

He had tried relinquishing the driver's seat; he'd tried driving. Each had earned him an amazing but one-sided experience. Tom was looking for something a little more—mutual. He wanted to see her smile because she was happy and sated, not just because she was capable and seductive.

And it wasn't entirely a physical reluctance. She didn't tell a lot of stories about her family life or personal friends, either.

After work, he managed to get snippets of memories out of her as they picked up groceries to stock her chronically empty kitchen—favorite foods, family picnics, her mother's elaborate brunch. But she was still holding back.

Later, as they lounged comfortably in her living room, he forged ahead, setting an example and putting himself out there for her.

While she ran her fingers through his hair, his head resting in her lap and his legs dangling off the sofa, he told her about his adolescence, his high school wrestling team and the coach who inspired him to work for the underprivileged youth basketball league, spending summers with his cousins, and his favorite spot even today—a place in Asbury just around the corner from his family's old summer house.

It wasn't that she listened inattentively, but he caught a spark in her eye when he spoke about the beach. A certain smile he wasn't sure that he'd seen before.

Maybe she had a special fondness for the beach.

Her stomach interrupted, however, and his responsive laugh reverberated against her thighs. She went to laugh, too, until her breath caught instead in a deep yawn.

They hadn't eaten yet, so Tom offered to prepare dinner while Kate rested in her room. She had been tired even at the end of her shift—murmuring something about spies on their way out of the Twelfth—but had by some small miracle agreed to accompany him to the store before their quiet night in.

He insisted that she not surface until he retrieved her for dinner, promising something simple and filling.

When he returned, he found her awake and sitting up in bed, writing.

Kate was quiet, poring over something that looked important. He didn't know that she was struggling to make a love song work, groping for lyrics that wouldn't materialize, wouldn't fall into place. He thought she was probably drowning in paperwork.

"Down paper, huh? That's the pits."

She didn't look up from her task. "No, I finished those reports already."

"No thanks to Castle, I bet."

She ignored the comment and kept writing, puckering her lips to chew the inside of her cheek.

Tom rallied. "What are you working on, then?"

"Just—writing."

He leaned over on fisted hands, kissed her cheek and nibbled on her lobe, wondering—wondering if it would leave the slightest little bruise, wondering how much effort she would put into concealing it later, wondering if Castle would see it and catch a clue.

Of course, Castle had claimed not to be interested in Kate (or, on second thought, did he only admit that he hadn't acted on it?), but Tom Demming's observation skills didn't need to be half as honed as they were to notice the undercurrent of magnetism between his girlfriend and her writer-shadow.

At least he'd never seen Castle make Kate's skin flush like this. He scraped his teeth and tongue across her warm flesh, blowing softly and drawing a shiver from her.

The heat rose up in her in tension with the sudden chill. She clutched her notebook to her chest, and laughed: "What are _you_ working on?" Without breaking contact from Tom, she closed the book and stretched her hand out to set it down on the nightstand.

As she reached, Tom nudged her onto her side, turning her away from him so he could spoon her and gain access to her neck and upper back, whispering requests for warrants to proceed.

She granted them, reaching one hand over her head to scrape through his hair and using the other to clutch his hip possessively to hers.

"Dinner?" she asked.

"I'm too hungry to eat yet."

Tom all but frisked her in their horizontal state, inspecting her curves. He held her from behind, nuzzling her and massaging her over her clothes. He unknotted Kate's shoulders and then wrapped around her to knead the flesh just beneath her clavicle, where certain feminine assets created tension. He considered turning her in one direction or the other to massage her properly, but they both seemed too content to move.

She sighed, releasing the pressure from her chest. "I knew you were a good worker."

He had already begun to kiss the curve of her shoulder blade, and he grunted his thanks, unwilling to be interrupted by anything short of a direct command from the woman beside him. She issued none. In fact, a little moan urged him on.

With that, he slid his fingers to her waist and below her shirt. With the hand folded underneath her side and resting at her breast, he swept beneath her bra and tweaked the erect tips as though tuning a fine instrument. Her responsive sounds were addictive.

Meanwhile, his unencumbered hand trailed along her hip, and, as she shivered against his warmth, he slipped his fingers lower, dragging the two layers of cloth against her in a slow, syncopated rhythm and watching her writhe from the friction.

"Tom—" she rasped, before being reduced to breathy gibberish. She pawed his hip, clenched and clung to his pants. The sudden absence of his hands from her breast and crotch all but lit her on fire.

Gently, he unbuttoned and unzipped her, slid beneath the elastic obstacle, and found her again; the textured ridges of his fingertips the only friction against her now. He began to strum the same chord over and over, and she hummed along. He felt her voice vibrating into him everywhere their bodies touched. Her quiet intonations turned to whimpers and semi-stifled guttural moans.

That would not do.

"Let it out, Kate," he huffed into her upper back, almost as breathless as she was. "Let go." He kissed the nape of her neck and pressed his cheek against her skin.

She could feel his clothed length firm against the back of her thigh as his fingers dipped inside her.

She clenched around him, aching for release, but she was unable to get past the feeling that something was wrong. It didn't make sense.

Her hips bucked once, and her hand left his side in a desperate flurry. When her hand covered his, he thought she was going to participate, but instead she gently eased him from her panties.

He held her, both of them still and silent for a moment, the dampness lingering on his fingers warm against her belly. He straightened the hem of her shirt, leaving her pants unzipped and unbuttoned.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked quietly.

"No," she said, looking over her shoulder to meet his eyes, letting him know that it was true, but she said nothing else and her brevity ate at him.

After she had looked forward, still in his arms, he spoke. "You were close. I know you were. Why did you make me stop?"

They slipped into silence again, and he breathed in, curled up closer, and exhaled over her shoulder.

Dinner waited, untouched, while they fell asleep there in the quiet, just long enough that Kate dreamt.

She dreamt that Castle spoke French.


	6. Strip

When she woke, Tom was settling back in beside her.

"I bear gifts," he said, nudging a bowl of something hot and steamy toward her. "It isn't takeout, but if you like Chinese food, you'll like this."

She was still a little groggy and just a little surprised to be hearing English. "What?"

"Dinner. We didn't eat."

"I—fell asleep," she said, as though realizing it herself just then.

"I did, too." He smiled a little awkwardly; gestured vaguely to her open fly, which she zipped and buttoned. Then he indicated the food. "It was still covered on the stove. I just reheated it."

She propped herself up and accepted one of the bowls he held, tasting appreciatively from the spoon. He'd offered it to her as though it were a substitute or a stand-in for something she'd prefer, but if she was entirely honest, it was pretty damn good. New and unfamiliar, but warm and flavorful; a blend of seasonings that made her tongue tingle, and sure to be filling as promised.

Then he asked suddenly: "Is this about the necklace?"

The bowl tipped precariously in her startled hands. "What?"

"I asked Esposito about it. I hope you don't hate me for going behind your back. I just didn't know what else . . ."

"What did he . . .?" She lost her voice somewhere after the third word.

"Told me to ask you. That it wasn't for him to say."

 _Good old Espo._ She could always trust him to stand by her. She exhaled a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

She was collecting her words, but she let the silence linger just a moment too long for Tom. His formidable patience was not quite as strong as his desire to sort things out. His voice was quiet, but firm: "You don't let me touch you."

His forwardness made her defensive, and the only words that came to her were half-truths. "Of course I do."

"You don't let me _pleasure_ you," he amended, digging a spoon around in his own bowl. "Like I said, I appreciate the attention, but I'd like to give it from time to time, and so far you haven't let me."

"You say it like I'm the dominant personality here," she said. Her brow twitched as she smiled and added: "But I've seen you spar, Detective."

For all that he didn't understand about her, Tom saw through her attempt at levity and redirection. "This isn't about dominance, Kate. It's about consent. It isn't just a power-play. I can't touch you if . . ." He gathered his breath and faced her, his expression serious—professional. "I won't coerce you to do something you don't want to do."

She opened her mouth once, twice, without words. And then: "I do want to."

"What?" he asked. "You're going to have to be more specific than that, Kate. You can't expect people to know what you're thinking. Even the people who care for you best."

Shit, he was really calling her out. She tried not to emerge with her tail between her legs. But first she tried to excavate a bite to eat to buy an extra moment or two.

She bit her lip, took a breath. "I want us to enjoy all this t—" She swallowed the word she couldn't quite say, but he nodded gently and seamlessly finished the thought for her:

"Together."

"Yes."

He glanced from her face to their bowls and back again. "The food?"

He was still pressing her to say exactly what was on her mind. She rolled her eyes, pursed her lips, and managed to swat his arm without tipping her bowl. "Sex."

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

She glared at him.

"Oh, hey, no pun intended."

She smiled, and after a moment, she softly cleared her throat. "It was my mother's—the ring on the necklace."

He was quiet, reverent. "Was?"

She nodded, and he knew what she meant to tell him, but for the first time, she didn't leave Tom to fill in the blanks alone. She began with the account of that night.

And there in her bedroom, without taking off a single article of clothing, Kate stripped herself bare for Tom Demming.

It surprised her—how much easier it was to be with him now; to sit beside him on her bed as they ate a home-cooked meal; to flirt a little more openly with him, even at the precinct the next day.

Now that he knew what brought Kate to the NYPD; now that he could imagine Johanna Beckett's case file and wondered exactly where in the bullpen Coonan had breathed his last at Kate's hand, Tom was even more determined to show care for Kate at work. He wanted to make the Twelfth more than her battleground.

When he found her, she was standing near her desk, file in-hand, reviewing what they'd learned thus far of Spy Ventures as she prepared to speak with the staff that morning.

He stood close and spoke in a low tone, sensitive to their privacy but equally eager to tell her his news. Last night, in the intimacy of their talk, he had suggested that the two of them take some time away—away from their files and reports and the stress of their day-to-day; away from the pain at the heart of Kate's investigative prowess; away from the battleground.

They had discussed no plans for where or when; only that a different environment might allow them the time and space to—connect.

"I've been thinking of some places we might go together," he said, gliding effortlessly over the word that he'd had to supply for her not twelve hours ago. He grinned, anticipating her enthusiasm based on that spark he'd seen in her eye yesterday. "You like the beach? My favorite place is booked solid for this weekend, but I have a close second I think you'd like."

The phrase that stood out to her was not the one he'd expected: "This weekend?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You know, get away from all our distractions, like we talked about. If you want, we can head out after work on Friday."

Before she could reply, however, the phone rang, and as soon as Kate answered it, the caller spoke without preamble.

"I'm looking for Richard." The woman certainly knew what she wanted and how to ask for it.

Kate hesitated. "Castle?" He didn't usually receive calls on her line.

"Yes, Castle," the voice said hastily. "Is he there?"

"No. . . ."

"Well, if he comes, tell him his first draft of _Naked Heat_ was due two days ago."

Kate sat on her desk and arched a disbelieving brow. "I'm sorry— _Naked_ . . .?"

From his end, Tom didn't like the sound of this phone conversation; "Castle" and "naked" being tossed around a little too closely without explanation. With any luck, the guy had been arrested for indecent exposure somewhere. Kate certainly looked horrified enough to make that plausible.

 _"Heat,"_ said the voice on the line. "And have him call Gina."

"Have him call . . ." Kate trailed off with the challenging thought of persuading Castle to do much of anything that wasn't theorizing about thrill-seeking spies or porphyric vampires or CIA-cons.

"His publisher," Gina clarified. "He's past his deadline. Tell him this can't wait anymore. That he's been dancing around this long enough, and—to just get it over with already, _please._ Nikki is not going to write herself."

Kate swallowed. "Right. I'll tell him."

Tom put his hands in his pockets and glanced at the phone as she hung up. "What was that all about?"

 _"Naked Heat,"_ Kate muttered.

_"Naked Heat?"_

_"Naked Heat."_

It finally clicked. "Nikki, Part Two?"

"Yeah."

"Huh." He said it more to himself than to her: "I really ought to get around to reading the first one."

She sighed, shifting her legs around the desk to face him and fingering the file she held.

He glanced around at the mostly empty bullpen, then removed his hands from his pockets and placed them on the desk on either side of her. "Hey," he breathed into her ear.

She thought he was going to make a comment on the book title—tease her about it or otherwise make her regret letting Castle sign on to this at all—but instead he whispered something she honestly hadn't expected.

"I have fond memories of this shirt on you," he growled, thinking back to the night that she'd devoured him on her sofa. "But is there a special reason you're wearing a turtleneck in late May?"

Soon, Castle rounded the corner, and their flirtatious reminiscence came to an abrupt close.

Kate felt that old feeling again—the one she'd felt when Castle caught her in the bathroom stall, hunting the pages of _Heat Wave_ for the Rookie sex scene. In an effort both to veer the conversation away from her up-close-and-personal time with Tom as well as to make light of all the embarrassment the series had already wreaked, she let Castle know that the second book's title—and the fact that she'd had to hear it first from Gina—did not amuse her.

Not that the various scenes she'd casually written over the past several months had Nikki clothed any more often than Castle's canon did (and in truth, far less often). But she wasn't about to tell Castle that.

He'd probably wax poetic about irony, waggle his eyebrows, and ask for copies of her work the way he asked for copies of photographic evidence—assuming he asked at all.

She hadn't written much prose lately, but she vividly remembered where she had left off. And even before there was Nikki's sexy new sparring partner, there was Rook. Lots of Rook. Lots of Naked Rook.

So, alarmed as she was, Beckett didn't linger too long on the topic of _Naked Heat._ She wouldn't risk showing him her hand.

Of course, Tom was doing a perfect job of revealing more of her private life to Castle than she had intended. He found them a few hours later, working the murder board, and told his next bit of news. This one was particularly time-sensitive: one open slot at his favorite place on the beach _(going once, going twice—c'mon, Kate, just say yes)._

She asked, "Let me look into it?" but damn if he wasn't going to go ahead and make the reservation as soon as he walked away. First choice was first choice, and if they waited, it could be too easily lost.

She pivoted on her heel and met Castle's eye. She could have had that conversation with Tom in front of anyone from Karpowski to Montgomery—hell, even her father—and it wouldn't have been half as uncomfortable as it was right now.

She channeled her discomfiture into a plea to Castle that she hadn't wanted things to be awkward between them. If she had known that what she really meant was that her discretion was as much for his sake as for hers, she would have wondered if that fact alone should have told her something.

Instead, she was preoccupied by the way her voice sounded and his face looked as she managed to utter: "Now that Tom and I are—together."

Again. Could have said it to Ryan or Esposito or any other human alive and why did Richard Castle make life so hard?

"That makes what I was going to say even easier."

She had made him falter momentarily, but if she hadn't already been sitting down, _what he was going to say_ and somehow said like it was _easy_ would have knocked her on her ass.

Somehow, Beckett pushed through the fog that felt like he was speaking a foreign language to make sense of what he was telling her.

This was the third time in two days (seventh, if every individual attempt counted— _what the hell?)_ that either Tom or Castle had suggested "time away," but it was the first suggestion that meant time apart from one another.

_A break._

Until that moment, Beckett had come to believe that the greatest vulnerability she could experience, short of a loved one's death, was entrusting someone new with her secrets.


	7. Spiral

Javier Esposito was caught in a precarious position. As though his own life didn't throw enough at him to keep him busy, his friends' personal lives had a way of reeling him into the thick of things.

OK, sometimes he volunteered.

The uncomfortably obvious love triangle that had become Castle, Beckett, and Demming was awkward as all hell. But the familial love he had for Beckett was motivation enough to say what had to be said.

She didn't seem to realize that she was in control; that she could very well be complicating her life again out of a new sort of fear. That she was dangerously straddling the line between two men that Esposito respected and considered among his brothers in Blue—even if one of them wore Kevlar labeled "Writer."

So he took the direct approach. He found her at the murder board once Castle had called it a night. Told Beckett about the going-away party; thought that might make it a little more real.

He and Ryan had seen her at what he now assumed was the moment that Castle told her he was leaving—distraught and distracted almost to the point of affecting her work—and then as the day went on, she seemed to push everything aside.

It worried him to see her shift so dramatically, and he knew well enough that Castle's absence would mean something to her; much more than she was showing now. She hid her concerns so well that Esposito wondered if she had even convinced herself that this was all nothing, but he wouldn't forget the look on her face when she was sitting at her desk today—like someone had died.

Like she was reeling, spiraling.

But shoving it aside wouldn't keep her from falling. Esposito knew that false peace was no peace at all.

She assured him Castle wasn't leaving forever—as though she couldn't believe that one day she might turn around and say, "You coming, Castle?" and he would say no, or else not be there to respond at all.

Esposito didn't back down. "Why do you think he's been following you around all this time?" he asked pointedly. "What, research? The guy's done enough research to write fifty books." He paused briefly, gauging her. "Look, whatever the reason is, I'm pretty sure it doesn't include watching you be with another guy."

And with that, he left the muse to her musings.

That's when it hit home; not just the reality of Castle leaving, but her role in all this. She hadn't thought that Castle's interest in her ran deep enough for her relationship with Tom to affect him so much.

He'd offered to be one of her conquests, after all—and after she'd said no, he'd easily moved on. He had deep-fried Twinkie sex with his ex-wife, kissed his ex-girlfriend during a clandestine rooftop rendezvous (she had pictures), wined and dined Bachelorette Number Three, comforted (screwed) an actress he'd just met in a TV studio, and giggled over a fancy risotto with her own friend.

Apart from a surprising history with Kyra Blaine, it didn't look like Rick Castle knew the meaning of meaningful. What was Kate _supposed_ to think about his intentions toward her?

Later, as she attempted to work at her computer, her gaze fell upon Castle's empty chair beside her desk.

Sometimes he seemed like more of a distraction than a shadow. And yet, somehow Castle distracted her most when he was gone.

When he was with her, he was—what was he?

He brought her coffee. He went with her to pick up suspects and witnesses. He joined her for interrogations. He teased her. He brought her Chinese food and dined with her right there in the precinct. . . .

A familiar voice came from somewhere over her head: "Hey. You ready?"

_God, no. But he's going to leave whether I'm ready or not._

Not Demming—no, not Tom. He would wait if she asked him to. But Castle was leaving after this case. If she weren't first and foremost a detective, part of her would wish they wouldn't solve it.

More likely, he would leave this weekend regardless of the case's status by then. Just leave it all behind him, incomplete and unresolved.

Like her. Like them.

Like all that freaking sexual tension that would be _ridiculous_ to act upon but grew more and more impossible to deny.

Wait. Tom, still waiting. His expectant face registered as she gathered herself.

"Yeah," she responded a little too slowly, without a smile. "Yeah."

She stepped around the chair, trailing her red coat behind her as she led him out of the Twelfth.

She was going home with Tom—or, more accurately, he was going home with her—but she couldn't concentrate properly on the man that she was leading out the door while the one that she had driven out was so inescapably on her mind.

Castle was leaving ("for the summer, 'at least,'" he'd said), and it seemed that he was taking with him the profound effect he'd had on Kate. He had only announced his departure today, and already, losing him was sending Kate down a different rabbit hole—a new grief.

No wonder Peter Pan was always so determined not to lose his shadow; without Castle, every hour would be noon, and the part of her wrapped up in his presence would no longer travel with her.

Someday she was going to catch the person responsible for her mother's death. Someday she was going to solve the greatest mystery of her life, and he wouldn't be there.

Gone. Like the air from her lungs when he told her.

Like the words she sought and couldn't say, couldn't write.

That love song she'd been flirting with still simply refused to take form. It was her habit to write a song or two in the early stages of a relationship—a secret she held as close to the vest as the fact that she watched _Temptation Lane_ (not even Castle knew that). But since Tom, she had mostly just written Nikki Heat fiction; this song was slow in coming.

 _You're my rapport, mine to adore._ Was that what she wanted to say? She wrote the counterpart to see if it seemed any better.

 _I'm your rapport, yours to adore_ . . . Oh. Either way, neither suggested another line. What words would lead to such a point in the song? What came next? She didn't know.

She couldn't seem to find the right lyrics, and even when those she found seemed to sound good, they carried little meaning. Her own song still didn't make sense to her.

Frustrated, she fell back on her prose. Good old reliable prose.

Once more, Tom found her curled up with her notebook. "I didn't know you did so much writing."

She didn't break her concentration to reply. "Only when I'm in the mood."

"You've been in the mood a lot lately." He kissed her cheek. "Guess that makes me your muse."

She smiled weakly to him as he turned to the door. "I'll be right there."

He nodded and retreated to the next room.

As he disappeared, she wrote the last line of the scene that had been unfolding at her hand tonight—and found herself oddly satisfied with the way it had turned out. Like all was right in the fictional world.

_"Rook, it's time you learned a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat."_

_Rook traced his fingers across her lip, down her jaw, and around her breast, spiraling inward. He grinned when she twitched beside him on the bed. "I think last night proved that I can hold my own."_

_He was referring either to the way that he'd fought off the impostor who had seduced Nikki or to the very long, very active night of makeup sex that ensued for the reunited couple. Either way, he had a point._

_"I'm serious," said Nikki, letting him continue his ministrations. She trailed her fingers down his chest and suddenly wrapped her hand around his growing erection. She smiled and thumbed the tip as he sucked in his breath and locked eyes with her. "You never know when someone will get the upper hand."_

_"Is that so?"_

_"Mm-hmm."_

_He placed his hand over hers, and together they stroked him, faster and harder, neither quite leading, until Rook groaned and sighed and they were both straining to breathe. He came against her belly. He kissed her softly and leaned across her for the tissues, but she intercepted him, rolling away from him and pulling his hand around her and down to her core this time, intertwining his fingers with her own and relishing his touch._

_Rook grinned into her hair. "If I'd known this is what you meant by hand-to-hand, I'd have suggested it a long time ago."_

Across town, the authors at Richard Castle's poker table speculated that his lady detective was more of a distraction than a muse. They teased him for publishing only one book per year, but the truth was that that had suited him just fine.

It was missing his deadline and spending too many long hours avoiding the awful glare of a blank screen that concerned him now. It was the terrible distraction of Kate's vague absence as of late; of struggling to hear Nikki's voice in his mind; of catching only fleeting glimpses of his inspiration, each glimpse not a reassurance but a painful reminder of what had been lost. It was the feeling that he was going in hopeless circles, and he didn't know how to stop.

Earlier that night, Kate Beckett had sat alone at her desk and realized that the writer who routinely followed her seemed to be more of a distraction than a shadow—even more distracting in his absence.

But, whether or not she would acknowledge it, whenever Castle became her distraction, he became her muse.

Words tumbled from her fingertips like echoes in a hollow room.


	8. Stagger

As Kate set out her clothes for the day, she thumbed the hot pink bra that had surprised Tom.

"I didn't figure you for a hot pink girl," he'd said, to which she'd replied, "Sometimes I am."

She began to dress, remembering another priceless reaction to the flash of color—it was peeking out from her impromptu disguise as a Russian that night that she saved Castle's ass in Chinatown.

"Him—a cop?" The accent had been effortless as she glanced between the surrendering writer with his hands in the air and the man who held him at gunpoint. "Don't make me laugh. He's barely even a _man."_

She'd been paying more attention to the armed Russian, but she was pretty sure that Castle did a double-take as he recognized her: _"Beckett?"_

She was still half-naked and holding her bra in her hand when the phone rang. Expecting it to be a business call, she picked up without looking at the incoming number and did her best to sound dignified despite being topless. "Beckett."

Castle's voice, with a note of forced joviality: "Hey. I'm not coming today."

She staggered, dropping the lingerie on the floor in surprise and quickly scooping it up and wrapping her arm across her chest as though he were in the room with her. "You're—not finishing out the case?"

"I just need some time to pack; hold the mail and paper delivery. Get my affairs in order."

It was the mantra she later recited nonchalantly for everyone at the precinct who asked her, "Where's Castle?"

In her mind, she blamed the total lack of progress on the case on the fact that people kept interrupting her. If she heard someone ask, "Where's Castle?" one more time, she thought her head might explode.

Yet she also depended on whatever interactions she had with her colleagues to make the day move just a little faster.

With a few exceptions, she had done well lately to stagger her time spent with Tom and Castle. Yesterday, Castle had interrupted her flirtatious moment with Tom, and Tom had barged into a powwow at the murder board to tell her about Asbury, but as far as she knew, the men hadn't crossed paths otherwise since the Wilder case.

Now neither of them came by.

Tom had asked last night if she needed a little space to collect herself before their trip, and she finally wrestled it out of him that he thought she looked down because she was thinking about her mother's death, since they had just talked about it the other night. As though she didn't live with it every day. As though she couldn't be thrown off her game for any other reason.

She'd promised him that wasn't it, but he only came by Homicide once to share a coffee break with her, anyway.

At one point, she felt a presence behind her as she stood at the murder board. "Before you ask, he isn't here—"

She pivoted to find Montgomery's raised brows.

"—sir."

"Well," he said coarsely. "You tell him when you see him that _this_ is ridiculous. We aren't paying him for this." He let his feigned gruffness crack as though hoping Beckett would smile, too.

"No," she said, not quite achieving the levity he'd hoped for her. "We're not." _He's just a freaking volunteer who literally signed a waiver on his life._

"Hey," Ryan greeted them, stepping forward to hand Beckett some papers she'd requested on Spy Ventures employees. Suddenly he looked around as though trying to make sense of a punch-line to a joke told hours earlier. "Where's Castle?"

* * *

Castle sat at his desk, watching his white-on-black screensaver repeatedly remind him: _You should be writing._

Having finally finished packing and making all the necessary calls before his trip, he was no longer able to use such tasks to avoid the taunt of the blinking cursor, so he simply left the screen idle long enough that it would just go away.

Here he'd seen the changes in Beckett and thought that she might be distancing herself from Tom, when in actuality they were— _together._ He couldn't read her anymore. She was more of a mystery than ever, and for the first time, he didn't think he wanted the answers. Didn't want words.

Except that silence was swallowing him piece by piece.

His own gratitude surprised him when Gina answered the phone, launching immediately into a tirade about missed deadlines, missed calls, and irresponsibility. Something about how such things inevitably ended in missed chances, and did he have a death wish?

He thought of the old show host, Bobby Mann, who'd talked to his first wife shortly before he was killed, asking her if she thought he was a good person, begging her for reassurance and validation and love. Even under different circumstances, he thought he knew just a little bit better now what the poor guy had been going through; knew the comfort of a familiar voice.

"Gina." His voice caught on her name, but he managed to get the rest of the words out: "I need you to be something other than my publisher right now."

He wasn't looking for sex. Lord knows if he was calling Gina, he wasn't looking for sex.

He'd once echoed Beckett's denial that their partnership was in any way intimate, telling Agent Jordan Shaw, "No, she's right. Apart from my second wife, this is the most sexless relationship I've ever been in."

He'd only half meant it in jest. The kind of intimacy he shared with Gina was more conversational than sexual. Hell, banter and eye-sex with Beckett was hotter than most of his marriage to Gina.

But she'd helped him through a particularly rough patch as a single father, and then once they were married they'd vacillated between a functioning partnership and some kind of weird competition, as though vying for Alexis' affection to fill the void they sensed because they weren't affectionate enough with one another.

But at their best, they could speak for hours. Sometimes Gina could be a surprisingly good companion, and if there was one thing that Rick was suffering, it was loneliness.

A particularly cruel brand of loneliness—not just because his family would be away, but because he felt unheard and ignored, not taken seriously; because he'd lost the last round of the "game" to Tom Demming. Because his best buddies were authors who wouldn't commiserate because they had already told him exactly what they thought at his poker table last night: _Get rid of the distraction._

"What are you talking about, Richard?" She was still flustered, but genuinely seemed to want to know. She stopped talking long enough to give him a turn, anyway, and that was a good sign.

So he took a breath, and he told her that he was lacking inspiration, that he needed time away; away from the city, away from the precinct, away from his soon-to-be empty loft. He was going to the Hamptons.

"Trading one empty home for another?" Gina asked. "Are you sure that will work?"

He was honest. Humble. He said he wasn't sure of much of anything right now, but had to try.

She was relieved to hear the tinge of effort and optimism—but the fact that Richard Castle showed only a tinge worried her. Even in the midst of their divorce, Richard rarely sounded broken, on the edge of hopelessness. What the hell was really going on?

Instead of pressing him for details, she did something she hadn't done in a long while: asked him about his life beyond his writing and shadowing and public speaking. Asked after Alexis—not casually or hurriedly, as she did from time to time, but like she really wanted the full report. Every beautiful, silly detail.

And Castle brightened.

Then one thing led to another, and they talked about movies and books and—God, they talked about _grammar,_ and it was so damn good. Sometimes he forgot how much Gina loved words. And right now she was so good at them; at drawing them out of him.

When they'd spoken for hours, Gina suggested that they end on a positive note.

But ending on a positive note would still leave Rick alone with himself and the silence again, and he wasn't ready to give it up. "Come to the Hamptons with me," he said suddenly.

"Richard, don't be ridiculous."

"I meant it."

"That doesn't make it any less ridiculous."

No, in his experience, _meaning it_ really didn't make anything less ridiculous, did it? So he simply told her that it would probably help him finish that manuscript she wanted if she'd come along, but she could think it over.

He thought it sounded a little too much like some sort of bribe, but he still felt the hope surge through him when she agreed to consider it.

He wasn't particularly good at asking for help, but he had a lot of experience asking for company.

* * *

The knock on Kate's door broke the silence in the sublet, and she was so grateful to find Lanie on the other side.

A girls' night in with strawberries and wine was just what she wanted right now. They talked and laughed and, by no small miracle, Lanie didn't even mention a male specimen all night.

That is, until Kate came down from the high of a particularly hearty laugh and made a tipsy comment about it. "God, this is nice. If life were a movie, we'd pass the freaking Bechdel Test."

"The what now?"

Kate explained that a film passes the test if there are at least two females who talk to each other about something other than a man.

Lanie humored her. "We do mostly talk about men, huh? But at work, we also—wait, do corpses count?"

"I guess," laughed Kate, "if they're not dead men."

But Lanie knew what Kate was not-saying: _Thank you for not asking me about Tom—or Castle._ So she didn't, and Kate gladly accepted the reprieve from her ongoing struggle with dilemmas of the head and heart.

Later, as she prepared to leave, something caught Lanie's eye. "What happened here? Your poor old _Heat Wave_ looks like it needs a doctor. I bet one more minute of whatever hell you put it through and it would've needed an M.E."

"I—dropped it."

"Let me guess. Bathtub?" Lanie eyed the wrinkled pages. "You tried to blow-dry it, didn't you?"

"Fan."

"Mm-hmm." She glanced around the sublet in search of something. "So do you have recycling pickup at this place or is it just trash?"

"No!" Kate said, too loudly. "I mean—it's fine. Leave it."

"Honey, it's trashed. You can get a new one."

Kate staggered, mouth agape in a futile attempt to make noises into words. She felt like she'd been doing that a lot lately. She felt like a fish.

"Unless," Lanie supplied helpfully, "you don't _want_ a new one."

Kate responded with a displeased _"No."_

Lanie fixed her with a stare and gathered her things, shaking her head. "Kate Beckett, you are a character and a half." She headed to the door, turning on her heel to toss parting words of counsel over her shoulder. "Just iron that sucker out. Silk setting, no steam. Use cloth to protect the pages from the heat. It'll take you half the night just to get through Chapter Ten and the wrinkles probably won't all come out, but it'll be a lot better than what you got going on here."

As the door closed, Kate flared her eyelids in exasperation, wondering if the Bechdel Test accounted for man-advice in subtext.

 _No steam_ indeed.

They both knew that she was concerned with repairing more than a book she liked, but as a reader and closeted writer, Kate could appreciate a pointed metaphor. Now she just needed an iron big enough to use on a grown man and she'd be set.


	9. Simmer

After he had stewed on his own for a day, Castle was ready to return to the Twelfth for a last hurrah. He had convinced himself that he wouldn't be helpful there; that he had too much to do to prepare for his trip, but now all that remained was to take Alexis to New Jersey and—hopefully—connect with Gina to see if she'd accompany him to the Hamptons after all.

Just thinking about the hours of driving he had ahead of him was enough to make him consider excusing himself from the precinct again, but the truth was that Patterson's musing about the case had started to gnaw at him, and he couldn't resist sharing the possible insight.

It had _nothing_ to do with wanting to see Beckett one more time before he left; no, nothing to do with that.

Maybe the police didn't need him to help crack this case, and maybe this was the piece that would put it to rest. One way or another, he didn't think it would be fair to the victim not to swallow his pride for just one more day. Then, case solved or not, he could leave tonight as planned without feeling guilty about it.

Besides, he'd overheard Ryan telling Montgomery something about a going-away party, and his sharpening deduction skills told him this one was for him. That, and the comically formidable look that Ryan gave him as he walked by tipped him off.

And honestly, leaving for however long would mean giving up a lot of good people in his life. As complicated as his feelings for Beckett were, he was truly and simply going to miss the team.

So on Friday morning, he strode into Homicide with his cup of coffee and an expression of uncertainty. He found Beckett sitting atop a desk—unaccompanied this time.

"Hey." She brightened tentatively. He hadn't called that morning, but she'd half expected him not to show up.

Earlier, in the Castle-less quiet of the bullpen, Ryan had asked Esposito, "If he doesn't come back, are we still going to have the party?"

Esposito frowned at his partner, and they both avoided meeting Beckett's eye. But she'd heard them and ignored them; ignored the slow churn of her stomach.

Now, the unexpected joy swelled up in her before receding with the realization that Castle held only one cup of coffee, a telltale sign that he wasn't going out of his way to take care of anyone else today; that they would have no excuse to brush hands in an exchange.

But he was back, and he was speaking, so she listened with everything in her.

"I was just thinking. . . ." He gestured as though to say, _Can I sit?_

"Yeah." She beckoned him to perch with her, biting her lip in anticipation.

"I've been thinking," he started again, and when he offered a legitimate theory about the case, she found it incredibly difficult at first to channel the detective in her who should be glad for the insight. The Kate in her felt too broken with false hope.

_Rein it in, Beckett. Simmer down._

"That's—so _funny,"_ she forced out, and then suddenly, words poured out of her: "because I was thinking the same thing when I woke up this morning. That maybe we got so caught up in the game that we forgot what really mattered."

She liked to think that by then the switch flipped and she was able to be Detective Beckett, offering Castle the possible lead on the indebted business partner. The truth of the matter—that she would take to her grave—was that this professional conversation was turning her on.

They had glorious Theory Sex right there on the desks, leaning in toward one another with every remark as creative energy crackled through the air between them.

But there were still a few twists and turns to the case, and things between Beckett and Castle were not so neatly ironed out, either. Not all of the tension remaining between them felt playful.

Caught up in it all, she'd even forgotten to grab some coffee, and eventually Esposito nudged a ceramic cup toward her in passing. The shock of it suddenly in her hands made her wonder if that machine was going to be a constant reminder of Castle all summer—or if she'd forget from time to time that it was ever there at all.

But as the day went on, she realized how deeply Castle had left an imprint on the precinct. He was certainly not just a gopher in charge of coffee runs or even a passive shadow trailing behind them. He was so busy aiding in investigations that he barely even took notes anymore. Maybe the precinct was deeply imprinted on him, too.

Captain Montgomery brought these thoughts back to the forefront when the two of them were discussing the freshly closed case. "It's too bad a man had to die because all the people involved were too scared to say what they really felt."

He fixed her with a pointed look, and she heard what he wasn't saying aloud: _Don't be such a nine-year-old about this, Beckett. Take it seriously. This isn't the shooting range; it's the field, where every second counts._

Every second counted, but it was almost five freaking hours of agony before she could take action.

Castle drove to Princeton, and even though she'd spotted Tom leading another detective to the break room ("It's like a real restaurant-style cappuccino machine," he was saying), by the time she got up the nerve to see him, he didn't have much time to talk. Could it wait until shift's end?

Well, sure. She'd waited this long. What was another . . . five hours?

She tried to concentrate on paperwork, but all she could think about was the way that just looking at Castle had made her smile; just thinking about being forthright with him—just a few more hours now—was incredibly _liberating._

He'd realized she was looking at him strangely halfway through telling her that he needed to drop off Alexis but that he'd be back, and—"What?"

"Nothing," she'd said, unable to contain her smile.

She'd tell him. Tonight. Montgomery had given her the final push she needed, and Tom had taught her to speak.

 _Tom._ That conversation still needed to happen.

So she thought, too, how cruel nature was—to allow her to feel such an attraction to someone she could never fully love; to feel safe in his arms but to guard herself against his hands; to have feelings for someone else who knew the depths of her heart but who could all too easily break it. Someone she needed to believe was worth that risk.

When she finally had Tom alone, she couldn't summon the words to explain her predicament; she simply said, "I can't go away with you."

Tom stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not just this weekend we're talking about, is it?"

She shook her head. "No," she said just as softly.

He thought of how he'd pressed her about her necklace; how he'd asked Esposito about her personal life when he hadn't known what else to do; how he hadn't pleasured her in the way he'd hoped. "Was it something I said, Kate? Something I did?" _Something I didn't do?_

God, his weary blue eyes. If she didn't already know that she needed to do this, that it wouldn't be any fairer to string Tom along, she might have been tempted not to go through with it.

But could she tell him outright, _"I tried to theorize with you while we were making out, and you wouldn't play with me"?_ Or, _"You would be perfect . . . if only you were Castle"?_

"No," she assured him. "You're great. You're really great, and I really like you. It's just—I don't think this is what I'm looking for right now."

"Well, what is it you're looking for, Kate?" He couldn't understand. They'd been doing so well. She had opened up to him, and sure, their intimacy had only gone so far, but they were finally addressing it. He thought they were doing everything right. So what went wrong? If she could tell him what she wanted, he thought he could do anything in the world to fix it for her.

What was she looking for? Had she figured that out since she'd told Madison weeks ago that she wasn't sure about that very thing?

Funny—she _still_ didn't know exactly what she was looking for. She only knew who she wanted at her side while she went looking for it.

"It's not a question of 'what,' is it?" It was as though he had read her mind, following her gaze to the window, watching the team celebrating Castle's departure—a party that Tom, in a flash of annoyance, had once debated sponsoring. _Good riddance,_ he'd thought, when Kate had mentioned it.

But now, judging by her expression, he didn't imagine that Castle was going to go away. He sighed. "I can't say that I didn't suspect it."

Suspect what? _Oh. Oh, no._ "Oh, Tom. I hope you don't think . . . We didn't—I didn't—"

"I know."

She arched a brow in question, grateful for his trust, but confused at his expression of sheer certainty.

"That you haven't found what you're looking for yet," he continued. "I was just hoping that I would be there when you did; that maybe it might be me."

 _Thanks, Tom. As though this isn't hard enough already._ But she heard him out; she owed him that much.

"Look," he said quietly, clearing his throat. "I never told you this, but—well, let's just say that I know from experience what it looks like when your girlfriend is cheating. That's how I know you're not. But I think there is something you haven't been honest about, and . . . it's not me you need to tell."

Damn, he was good at the straightforward thing.

She managed a small smile for him; for what he said. "I think that's true." But his grace was almost more than she could bear, and she cracked under the pressure. "God, you must think I'm a terrible person."

She didn't mean to fish for compliments, for reassurance, but some part of her must have known that Tom wasn't going to condemn her. Yet she felt guilty enough about the mess she'd made—especially that it wasn't the first time that she'd been tangled up in a love triangle _(hello, med student)_ —that the long pause didn't soothe her.

Finally, he said, "No. I'll be honest, too, Kate. It'd be hard to see you with another guy. Especially—" He nodded vaguely to the festivities beyond the window. "Yeah. Just so you know, I don't think I can stick around after this. I can't pretend this doesn't hurt. But, no, I don't think you're a terrible person. One hell of a sparring partner, though." A smile lightened his pained eyes. "I'll miss the challenge."

Not having been privy to this conversation, the team was surprised when Beckett finally joined the party, only to tease Castle and steal him away.

After they closed the door behind them, Lanie leapt up and hummed appreciatively.

"Demming?" asked Esposito and Montgomery in unison, exchanging a look of vague embarrassment for their curiosity.

"I don't know," said Lanie. "But . . ."

"Wait, who's that?" Esposito eyed the blonde arriving at Castle's side, and he and Montgomery stood unabashedly for a better view.

Ryan remained at the table. "Uh—guys? OK if I take the last pepperoni?"

Esposito waved his hand at his partner without turning around. "Not now, bro."

"What'd she say?" the Captain asked.

"I read lips." Ryan put down his pizza and stepped up behind his colleagues. "Sort of." He tilted his head and tried to get a good angle on the scene. "Beckett just said, 'For the win.'"

Montgomery murmured, "Take her down, Beckett."

Then Castle gazed at the blonde, who took his arm, and Esposito felt a vein pulse in his forehead. "Damn. He likes this chick."

Beckett's sentiments at that moment were not all that different.

But then he took her hand, and little waves of electricity dissipated from her palm as quickly as they arose. They held each other a moment longer than necessary, but when the heated energy simmered within her, Beckett never wanted to let go. She wondered if he felt it, too. She suppressed an alarming urge to intertwine their fingers and guide him to feel her arousal for himself.

_I want us to enjoy this—together._

Shit, touching him was a mistake.

She had planned to tell him that she wanted the chance to get to know him better; take time away from the precinct to be together as friends, as people. Who knew one handshake could make her want to get to know him in the biblical sense?

And just like that, he was leaving— _they_ were leaving, confirming all her fears not only that Castle would run, but also that he would find another woman to accompany him. Then there would probably be another and another. . . . But for now, it was only his ex-wife, a woman with whom he had an undoubtedly long and complex history.

As she watched them walk away, a thought pounded at her temples, relentless and condemning: _You had your chance._ She didn't know if she meant it toward Gina or herself.


	10. Sense

Castle knew it was stupid to try to cook something so late, especially after six hours of driving—the journey to the Hamptons after the roundtrip to New Jersey was catching up to him—but he couldn't quell his hunger. They hadn't stopped for groceries, so the pantry was stocked with little more than Scotch, a staple item in his house, and good old nonperishable pasta. He helped himself to a little of both while Gina readied for bed.

He fumbled the pot of boiling water, cursing it as his scorched hand shot back in pain. Stubbornly wanting to finish straining the spaghetti so he could eat, he hesitated at first, but his flesh still felt like it was on fire, so finally he flipped the faucet on and buried his fingers in the streaming cold salve.

He remembered writing a story once about a character with congenital analgesia, the inability to perceive pain. He thought about nociceptors—a word he always liked—and the way that the nerve endings respond to painful stimuli to cause the sensation of pain, and how without that sense, his character hadn't been able to survive. The disorder itself wasn't fatal; it was the fact that he didn't know how to protect himself from danger.

It was a lesson that Castle thought he'd learned in his character development, but every now and then he seemed to need to be reminded: pain has a purpose. It tells you when something is wrong; when it's time to pull away.

He had finally done that. Now all that was left was to heal.

Maybe one day he would not feel guilty for leaving, or preoccupied about what changes would transpire in his absence. Beckett and Demming were already together—and really, they were both good people, so what reason would they possibly have for breaking up?

Despite his competitiveness, he never imagined for a moment that he would be that reason. That he already was; that they already had.

The long-term thing had never really worked out for Castle, but he couldn't say that he wanted to get in the way of it happening for Beckett. She deserved a one-and-done. She deserved someone who touched her heart and made her sing.

He wasn't foolish enough to believe that he would ever forget the electricity that went through him as he took Beckett's hand. But maybe one day he would not long so futilely, so painfully for her touch, for her smile.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the quiet refuge of her home, Kate wrote.

Not prose. Nikki and Rook were caught in some kind of literary purgatory, or maybe paradise, still in bed together with their fingers interlaced. Kate would come back to them eventually, maybe even work on developing that sorry excuse for a plot holding together all those sex scenes, but at this point they were on standby.

For now, she sang. She was still muddling through the melody, but the lyrics flowed much more freely now, completing the piece that she had been struggling to write. _A complete piece,_ she later mused, noting it in her word-clouds of interesting phrases. What a fitting oxymoron in her own brokenness.

As it turned out, she was writing a different sort of love song all along. The defeated kind; the lament.

It seemed contradictory, to be so inspired by something so shattering. But she poured herself into her pen. She wrote the song, and, sadly, the words made sense.

_If only, if only, I could've been yours_  
Been your rapport, and yours to adore  
If only, if only I would've said yes  
Forgotten the rest, oh, I could've said yes  
If only, if only you'd ask me again  
I'd give you my hand, let you take me across the sand 

She thought of how she had begun to fall for him; of how she had been unfair to not one but two decent men, falling short of the bravery and merit and honor she expected of herself; of how she had set out to set the record straight only to stumble to a dead-end. She thought of the aching loss she'd felt the other day, when Castle said that he was leaving, and how much more it penetrated her core now that he had gone.

_I feel I'm falling deeper every day_  
Melting away, down a dark and endless abyss  
I'm grasping at straws and I'm chasing the wind  
As I fall on my face over and over again 

She thought of Madison, dredging up the past, as though Kate's dilemma with the med student and the French guy would seem simple by now; as though it would make enough sense to keep her from making a similar mistake.

She thought of dreaming that Castle spoke French; that she didn't quite love him, exactly, but that some part of her would be worse for wear in his absence. For months, the Frenchman had written to her, persistently attempting to maintain their connection even though Kate had long since given up. Castle had a similar optimism, but he also had Gina. Would she receive letters in the mail this time?

_If only, if only I had the luxury of retrospect  
Sounds like you're speaking some sort of foreign dialect_

She thought of Montgomery's advice—thinly veiled as a moral to the entire investigation instead of the fatherly nudge she took it to be. She thought of Gina's hasty insistence that Castle had missed his deadline; that time was short, and that Nikki Heat would not simply write herself. She thought of the scene that she had penned for Nikki and Rook; their fingers intertwined, exploring and content and open to new possibility.

_If only something precious as time had a price_  
Instead of endlessly taking its toll on my soul  
Oh, so many if-onlys running through my mind  
What-ifs and storybook endings time after time 

She thought of the look on Castle's face as he echoed her enjoyment of the past year that they had worked together; thought of the electricity coursing through her as they shook hands, and the terrible realization that that sensation was not hers to know; thought of Castle wrapping his arm around Gina and leading her down the hall and away to the Hamptons for the whole summer.

_If only, if only you could've been mine_  
I'd take you  
Into the blue and faded world of my daydreams 

She thought of how faded she felt; fallen.

And then she picked herself up, because Kate Beckett did not lament for the French boy and she would not, could not lament for Richard Castle; not when they had each confirmed her theories the moment they walked away. She'd always known they would not stay.

She forced Castle to the back burner because it was exactly where she felt like he'd placed her. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't turn off the stove this time.

For months, she simmered in his absence, until the day that she saw him again—the day that she arrested him for murder. Then she boiled; her passion and hurt bubbling to the surface as she calmly interrogated him about his summer and his sex life, neither of which had included her.

To make matters worse, while she had brooded that he was probably in "lots of relationships with women" over the summer, he and Gina were still together. She felt like a dumbass, and not just because she had given up on Tom Demming, but because she had underestimated the character of Richard Castle.

And that's when she sensed that she had been touched, truly. That Castle had scarcely touched her skin, but had all but touched her heart. That she missed this sort of touch more than she could have imagined, with a vengeance deeper than any lust or fantasy.

That even if they couldn't embark on something new together, rebuilding what they had would be a worthwhile endeavor.

Building their friendship; their trust. Building theory.

By the time they finished together, erupting in unison, "I know who the killer is," she knew that her shadow—her partner—was back for good. That reading his books and writing in her solitude were nothing compared to conversing with him.

She loved intertwining her voice with his as they theorized and plotted, argued and flirted.

After all, they were so very, very good at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from the song "Into the Blue" by Sara Jackson-Holman


End file.
